


Partners Chosen By Chance

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Masks, Multi, Outdoor Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Unexpected threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being surrounded by masked figures is no longer <i>fun</i> for Draco, but when he tries to step away from the party, the festivities come to find him in unexpected, and very entertaining, ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partners Chosen By Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the samhain_smut community on Livejournal. As always, JK Rowling owns the world and the characters, I just like to play here.

Draco doesn’t like masks.

He can remember a time when they seemed mystical, magical, something that drew him in with childish curiosity as people danced by in the great hall of his home. He remembers lying down on the stairs, trying to seem small and insignificant so his parents wouldn’t find him, watching the party that had begun long after his bedtime. He remembers wondering who each person was, and if by day they were someone utterly mundane, like Pansy’s father or Blaise’s mum. But they had been transformed by their masks into peacocks, griffins, unicorns. Creatures and people out of storybooks and fantastical tales, and no longer merely mums and dads.

But now, masks are a nightmare. Draco remembers the cloaks and masks of the Death Eaters, hiding people again, but this time behind a shining blank face that meant evil. The mask no longer implied something potentially wonderful; the mere sight of it meant terror, shaking, wondering who was going to die.

This… this masquerade, with everyone’s features hidden… it makes Draco shiver. He knows he should be having fun, and he suspects his friends are. However, they didn’t live with the Dark Lord in their home. They weren’t forced to _become_ that terror.

Still, he must play the game tonight. It is his eighth year at Hogwarts, and this party belongs solely to those students who are adults within Hogwarts’ walls and here willingly to complete an education interrupted by war. No matter how outnumbered he might feel, they will all celebrate All Hallows Eve with joy and abandon and a masquerade, because they will show that the war is over and done.

No matter how much it lingers within their nightmares.

Draco stands to one side and tries to see past the masks to find the people behind.

The Patil twins are simplest, the cut and decoration of their costumes traditional, and he can’t forget those smiles: bright and full of white teeth against full, dark lips. Blaise dances with one, his lion’s mane meant to tease the students who use to call Gryffindor home.

There are no traditional houses for these eighth year students. Their house is Phoenix, for Fawkes, for the end of the war, and for unity and rebirth. They have made a fifth place within the walls, and they have their own rules, house points, and Quidditch team. Draco flies; for some reason Potter does not.

He spots Ron Weasley, surrounded by a trio of women that includes Pansy. Draco smirks. She set her cap for Weasley at the beginning of the year, and he wonders if Ron even wants to escape her net. He can’t say what it is that draws Pansy to the redhead, but nothing will get in her way once she has made up her mind. 

The rest, however… they are a blur of strange creatures and people, a haze of glamour and masks. Someone dances by in a dark cloak, and for a moment Draco’s chest clenches, breath coming tight, and he grips the wall, eyes closing. Three breaths, slow and even, and he stands on shaky feet.

“Are you all right?”

He tries to place the voice next to him—male—and is frustrated when he cannot. “I’m fine.” His own voice is hoarse, chest still tight.

“You don’t sound fine.” The voice is doubtful, but not particularly concerned, and the last thing Draco wants is something neutral. Someone that has nothing to do with him fussing over him.

“I am _quite_ fine,” he assures him. There is silence, and Draco waits while the stranger turns his attention away before he escapes.

The Phoenix house has a doorway leading directly out onto the grounds of the school. They are all adults, and all are here by choice and not technically under the jurisdiction of the faculty. In fact, Neville Longbottom teaches Herbology to the first and second year students when he is not studying, preparing to take over for Professor Sprout, who still works with the older students.

They all have been given a sense of autonomy, and Draco appreciates that. He does not want to have to explain when he wishes to escape the claustrophobic, cloying feeling of living in a dormitory with over thirty other people. He just wants to step outside, into the thick gardens, and be alone.

Except that soon, he is not alone.

The couple stumbles out, laughing, and pushes into the garden without seeing Draco. One is dressed as a faerie, with delicate wings that flutter as she moves, as if they are a part of her. Perhaps for tonight they are. The other is a satyr, his chest bare, his lower half covered with fur that matches the thick, messy thatch of hair on his head.

Draco swallows hard. He knows that hair. _Potter_.

No, not Potter. _Harry_. This year they have all made the effort to use the intimacy of their given names to break down the barriers between the old house lines. It has taken time, and somethings Draco still has to correct himself, inside his own mind.

He thinks that they have to have noticed him. He’s sitting on the bench _right here_ , and his costume isn’t subtle. He is dressed in gilded robes, a torc about his throat that shines with captured sunlight. The mask over his eyes and cheeks sets light upon his face. Draco is the sun god, as far from darkness as he could come, and in the dark of the night he must be a beacon within the garden.

Yet they ignore him.

Harry has the faerie’s dress open, and nuzzles the bared top of one breast while she gasps. He presses his hips into her, trapping her between himself and the tree, but she certainly doesn’t seem to mind. From this angle, Draco can see the bulge evident beneath the satyr’s fur, and it is impressive. Draco wets his lips, tongue flicking out as he makes a hoarse sound, and for a moment  he thinks he captures Harry’s attention.

But no. Harry buries his face in the crook of his faerie’s neck as he lifts her. Her skirts slide up to bare skin—there are no knickers hidden beneath—and Harry’s fingers grip the soft globes of her bum. Again he presses into her, and she arches back, the tip of one nipple peeking out where her dress has been pulled aside. Harry captures that with his teeth, tugging sharply, and she cries out, the sound bright in the night.

Harry stills, and for a moment there is only harsh breathing and the sound of her whimpers, soft words begging for more.

He obliges with another sharp nip, and is rewarded by another cry. Draco watches as Harry tries to juggle holding her up and finding some way to cover her mouth with his hand. Harry grunts in frustration, his hips still rocking gently against her, rutting and hungry.

“Come here.”

Several heartbeats pass; Draco is confused. He stares at Harry and the faerie—he hasn’t stopped staring since they came out into the garden. But now Harry is looking at him, green eyes bright and focused. Draco taps one finger to his own chest, and Harry nods. “Yes, you,” Harry says. “I need another hand, and you’ve got two, so you might as well put one to use over here.”

Draco walks slowly over. It is impossible that neither of them recognizes him. No one else has hair so light or skin so pale. No one else would dare become a sun god at night, nor have the money to purchase such a torc as he wears. He hesitates, one hand in front of the faerie.

This close he can see clearly who it is. Her brown eyes and tumbled brown curls give it away. He stands there, uncertain, and something in her gaze grows hurt.

Hermione wonders if he will touch a mudblood. He knows this, knows exactly what thought crosses through her mind, and that decides him.

His fingers curve over her mouth, gently placed but covering her lips well. She can breathe through her nose easily, but she cannot make a sound. He feels the warm huff of her sigh, feels the smile of her lips against his fingertips. She doesn’t mind this; in fact, she is pleased.

Harry bends to take her nipple again, and Draco feels the sharp intake of breath, hears the cry muffled by his hand. Her body arches at the rough handling, loving it. She whimpers, twisting, pressing her other breast forward, but Harry ignores it.

The nipple is peaked, dark brown against the pale skin, pebbled and hard. Draco reaches out with his free hand, brushing his fingertips against it, and she wriggles, trying to press closer. He takes that as encouragement, and squeezes, pinching just as Harry nips again.

Her body tenses, and Draco feels the shudder roll through her, breath coming in low gasps as an orgasm overtakes her.

He is so hard in his trousers that he thinks he could come without being touched, just from watching them.

But they aren’t stopping.

Harry wrestles with trying to hold her while undoing a zipper at the front of the hairy satyr costume. “Open it,” he orders, and since Hermione is quiet, Draco lets go of her and does what Harry asks.

Draco drops to his knees so he can tug the zipper down, freeing Harry’s hard prick. The length and girth is impressive, heavy in his hand and thick and hard. He is tempted, so tempted, to do more with it, but Harry is struggling to hold Hermione up and Draco can smell the musk rolling off of both of them. He stares at that prick, jutting out from the fur as if Harry has been transformed into a satyr in fact rather than costume. Draco’s hand slides along the length, and he helps angle it up until it just presses against Hermione’s slick lips.

Draco comes to his feet just in time to get his hand back over Hermione’s mouth and capture the cry when Harry thrusts into her. Her hand grabs at his head, yanking him to her, and in surprise he lets go of her. Off-balance, he falls into them both until he stands with his hips pressed where he can feel the movements of them against his aching prick. Hermione finds his mouth, and he swallows her cries with his kiss, a soft grunt and moan every time Harry presses into her.

His hands are free to touch her now, and Draco does, letting his fingertips skim over her breasts, tasting that soft flesh and tweaking it with sharp pinches as she shudders beneath his touch. Her gasps turn frantic as she clings to him. Her body is warm and flushed beneath his touch, responsive to every flick of his fingers. She is close again, shuddering with every thrust, gasping softly into his mouth and begging to be swallowed whole with low whimpers and cries.

Draco imagines what it would be like to be the one plunging into her softness, and for the first time she is not _mudblood_ or _muggle_. She is just a faerie sprite that has seduced him with fawn-soft eyes and wild hair that tickles the side of his cheek.

And the grunts in his ears, low and guttural, almost desperate… those draw him in as  well. He can feel every movement as Harry thrusts, and even though Draco knows he shouldn’t, he loosens his trousers, letting his own aching prick spring free.

It is a bit like being rubbed off with soft velvet, only with hard, rough strokes. The fur of the satyr’s legs brushes by his prick on every thrust, and Draco groans at the sensation of it, almost ready to orgasm from this alone. But he manages to hold on—this is not his fuck, not his time—as Harry’s grunts grow louder.

Hermione squeaks in surprise, body arching before she goes limp, cradled between Harry and Draco, but Harry isn’t done. Draco hesitates, his hand finding the small of Harry’s back. Fingers slide beneath the edge of the costume, over the curve of Harry’s bum, and Harry’s movements stutter. A hand snakes out, Seeker-fast, and grips Draco’s hair, twisting slightly as Harry pulls him in for a kiss. He can taste every groan, every grunt, and the thrusts fuck him as much as they do Hermione.

The three of them are together, and then it is done. Harry groans long and low as he pushes deep into Hermione and loses himself there.

Draco is left wanting, panting between them, aching and hard.

Reality slips back in with the moonlight and a burst of laughter from inside the room.

Harry whispers a spell, and the world narrows to the space around them, giving them privacy in plain sight.

“I shouldn’t—” Draco tries to take a step back, but Harry holds him there.

“We knew you were there.”

Draco doesn’t know what to think of Harry’s words. When matched with Harry’s smile, it makes this seem pre-meditated.

The three slowly disentangle themselves, and somehow Draco is the one pressed up against the tree, with both Harry and Hermione on their knees before them. Draco had fantasized about this once, having the Boy Who Lived on his knees and at his mercy, but in his fantasies Harry had never stroked one hand along Draco’s prick, or kissed the tip, tonguing at the slit. Draco groans; it is obvious that his fantasies were seriously lacking in imagination.

Harry takes Draco’s prick into his mouth, pausing when the tip hits the back of his throat, then doing _something_ to make himself seem to have more space. Draco can’t help but thrust, and he goes _into_ Harry’s tight throat. Harry swallows, contracting around Draco and _oh Merlin_ but that’s brilliant. Draco thrusts again, and again, his eyes rolling back as he reaches for something—anything—to hold onto.

His fingers find hair, and they twist in long, soft curls. Hermione moans softly, her tongue flicking out against Draco’s balls. While Harry works his prick, Hermione takes his balls into her mouth, warm and wet and soft, teasing at him while her finger draws circles around the tight pucker of his arse. Draco has never thought about a blowjob in quite this way, but now that it is happening, he can’t imagine anything better.

His feet slip, widening his stance and giving her more access, and she responds by pressing just the tip of one finger past the rim. He bites his lip, trying to keep the scream in as he thrusts again. He is too close, and it is too much; he spills down Harry’s throat with one rough thrust after another.

Draco’s knees go weak and he drops to the ground, panting. He is gathered up in their arms, pulled into an embrace that he thinks should be awkward and somehow isn’t, despite there being three sets of arms instead of two.

“I think we ought to go back inside,” Hermione murmurs. Her lips are pressed against Draco’s throat, her legs sprawled across Harry’s lap. Draco’s stomach goes cold at her words; he knows this is done.

“Mm.” Harry doesn’t respond, his hand stroking from Hermione’s hip to Draco’s and back again. “You’re probably right. You coming, Draco?”

His mouth opens, and Hermione captures it in a kiss. “We’re keeping you,” she murmurs. “At least for the night.”

“Did you plan this?” He has to ask, although he can’t imagine that they did.

Harry shakes his head. “We knew you were there, but it wasn’t planned when we came outside. Did you mind?”

Draco can’t help the absolutely utterly _inelegant_ snort that escapes. “Hardly. I’d like to think the moans might prove my enjoyment of the affair.”

“Then we ought to continue inside.”

They untangle quickly and rise to their feet. Everything is tucked away again, although Draco’s gaze lingers on Harry’s fur. Costumes are slightly askew still. Harry’s fur is matted, and Draco’s mask has been lost, as have Hermione’s wings. That lets Draco run his fingers down her back, bared by the dress, loving the way she shivers beneath his touch and whimpers pleasantly.

Her fingers curl into his, surprisingly trusting, and Harry nudges close on the other side. Together they move into the Phoenix dormitory, past those students dancing and laughing with the music, into the halls that lead to the rooms beyond.

This isn’t how Draco expected the night to end, with partners chosen by chance.

He wonders, however, if this is how his life can now begin.

They reach a room—Harry’s or Hermione’s, he doesn’t know which—and they move inside in a flurry of hands and lips, kissing exposed skin as they strip. Draco kicks the door closed, which mutes the music but does not muffle it completely. He is gathered in by two lovers, and together they begin to dance.


End file.
